


Idol Hands

by Dogwood



Series: More Than Most [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emerald Graves, F/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 14:34:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5748034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dogwood/pseuds/Dogwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lavellan looks after a lonely little shrine to the Dread Wolf in the Emerald Graves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Idol Hands

No Inquisitor should expect to sleep well, waking up every morning bright and refreshed, but sleeping fitfully had become Lavellan’s new normal, even in the plush, almost preposterous comfort of her Skyhold quarters.

On the road it was worse, even for someone who enjoyed travelling. Most nights were long, frustrating affairs, spent staring into the blackness at the canvas above her, fixating on the never ending litany of tasks that clawed and howled for her attention. Every night she’d turn political plans, spy reports and requisition requests over in her head, eventually drifting off, only to wake again to dwell on a completely new batch of problems.

On nights when sleep simply refused to come she sighed, resigned to a long, uncomfortable day, and roused herself, starting her day even earlier than usual.

This particular night in the Emerald Graves was much the same. She’d tossed and turned until her scratchy saddle blanket had wound its way about her legs, and even the peaceful, familiar sounds of the forest were no balm for her racing mind.

Eventually, with a sigh of frustration, Lavellan untangled herself from her blanket and crawled to the mouth of the tent, where she stood and kneaded the back of her neck. The camp was still, dark, the insignia flag waving gently in the night breeze. Elsewhere, she knew, a night watch patrolled the borders around them, watchful for danger, ready to alert them at the slightest hint of trouble.

Scout Harding had clearly chosen the camp site - a vine covered elven ruin - due to its nearness to water and elevated terrain, but had mentioned nothing about the statue until they’d arrived. Lounging, content, in the centre of the ruin was a horse-sized statue of Fen'Harel, his slate coat aged to distinction, his clever eyes forever scanning the nearby forest.

Old habits were hard to break, however, and Lavallan had made sure her own tent was set just behind the stone beast, his gaze pointed away from her modest accommodations. Directly towards Varric and Dorian’s tent, to be sure, though neither seemed particularly ruffled by the idea.

She drew a deep breath of night air and stepped towards the inconveniently placed shrine.

The offerings for the Dread Wolf were from some time ago, likely from the last clan to come through the area, before the self-titled Freeman had started skirmishing among the Dales. A small collection of clay pots by the wolf’s paws were full of tepid rainwater - one a watery grave for an upside down wasp - and the flowers draped over his legs were dried, dead, their once bright colours faded to a desiccated brown. The incense had long ago melted away, leaving a black stain just by the animal’s handsomely carved elbow.

“You’ve been alone some time, haven’t you?" 

She stepped towards his muzzle, resisting the urge to place her hand on the smooth curve of his head, to touch the sharp angles of his alert ears.

It fell to her then, to set the situation to rights.

With her eyes adjusted to the moonlight, Lavellan set about gathering the pots, carrying them to the edge of camp, and pouring the murky, unpleasant smelling water into a nearby colony of unlucky ferns. Once empty, each pot was rinsed out in the rocky stream at the foot of the hill. 

The pots themselves were simple things, with a few swirls by way of decoration, and she wondered at the hands that made them, where they were now. …if the clan even still existed, she thought with a short, rueful note.

Back and forth she went, until all three pots were in a respectable condition - if not clean, then at least not a breeding ground for insects.

She turned her task to the plants next, sweeping away the spent flowers and gathering new ones just behind her tent. A few stalks of a butter yellow plant she’d never seen before, a handful of delicate snow-in-summer, some green clover to round out the whole affair. They were arranged evenly into the pots, a humble little display of appeasement.

The light was just beginning to change, the cold blue of night fading into something warmer, more welcoming, when she felt a presence in the clearing. 

Lavellan turned, straightened, cleared her throat. 

Solas stood by his tent, had been watching as she’d knelt at the plinth, hands adjusting pots, straightening wayward leaves, brushing clean the ancient stone.

”…Did I wake you?“ she asked after a moment, wiping the drying soil from her hands.

"Not at all,” he said, and even in the moonlight she could see his gaze slide from her features to the modest bouquets by the statue’s feet.

“I know.” She said quickly, glancing in the same direction and fighting the desire to step between him and the flowers. “Just…" 

Out of all the people in the camp to catch her doing something painfully, unambiguously Dalish, it had to be him. Even Sera would’ve been preferable. 

"Trouble sleeping.” She said finally, rubbing a finger along her eyebrow, looking pointedly elsewhere.

Around them, the leaves on the canopy rustled, the coals in a nearby brazier hissed their last, and the running water from the small stream carried on over moss laden rocks, oblivious to the elves.

“We all look for things that can bring us comfort,” he began, his voice low to avoid waking the others. “Whatever experiences I may have had with your people, I would not attempt to deny you that.”

Her brows arched as she turned to meet his gaze.

"For what it is worth, I spoke thoughtlessly to you about the Dalish earlier. It was… poorly done.”

The moment hung in the air, and she took a small breath, considering her answer.

He was quicker. Solas stepped forward and held out a hand - an offering. One that she accepted after a moment’s hesitation, grateful that the early morning light hid most of the dirt just under her fingernails, and when she did he squeezed her fingers gently, sending a surge of warmth through her. She smiled at him, a slow pull at the corner of her mouth, and it was returned in kind.

“Please don’t tell Sara.” She said, glancing over her shoulder at the ancient statue with a lift of her brows. “Or the Chantry, for that matter.”

His laugh was short, low and pleased.

There was still something tentative, something cautious between them, but when he lifted his hand to her face, his fingers brushing against her jaw, it seemed to her like they were, with any luck, moving in the right direction. It was at least something to think about at night besides enemy movement reports.

“If you can, you should rest. It will be some time before the others wake,” he said, his voice still low.

Lavellan leaned into his palm, noting the calluses on his thumb, and set a light kiss against the skin there before stepping away. They hadn’t been in a position to speak much since the moment in the Fade, but this was certainly something. Something hopeful.

“It can’t hurt to try,” she said, and gave him one last, searching look before turning back to her empty tent.


End file.
